Painted Lemons
by ThisIsNotReality
Summary: Casefic! The skull of a woman has been dug up in the dead of night. Her daughter and grandson seek the help of Sherlock Holmes to find out who the perpetrator was, and why the skull was stolen. Meanwhile a gruesome murder takes place in London, and Lestrade requires the help of the detective. A/N: Johnlock: Not really; Other questions - read A/N inside, it may be necessary.
1. The Skull

**Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or the setting of BBC's Sherlock, nor do I profit from it – I write for the fun of it.**

**A/N:** This is a casefic, the plot is of my own making, independent from my other fics.

**Johnlock: **This is _not_ Johnlock! Those who have read my other fics may know that I have some trouble giving a guarantee that holds (the ongoing _Alleyways_ is a perfectly good example, it was only intended to contain two chapters!), but I do not intend for this to be Johnlock, no matter how much it smells like it (I've got my reasons for the smell). But since this is very much WiP I cannot rule it out, I go where the story takes me – if you are _not_ into Johnlock, you may run into trouble with this fic, if you _cannot_ read a fic that does not contain Johnlock, you may be troubled by this fic.

Life holds no guarantees, nor does this fic (except for one: the plot has been thought through, don't worry about that detail).

**In other words: **_**read this fic with an open mind about, well, everything, and hopefully I will repay you with a good, unpredictable read :-)**_

**Apologies in advance:**  
The chapters in this fic will not have the same length – so some may be shorter, some longer.  
Since this is WiP, I cannot promise any regular updates unfortunately, but I will strive for updating once every fortnight.

**The title:** no pun intended…

**Now:** lean back, enjoy – and please review, as I must admit I love reviews :-)

* * *

**The Skull**

"Your grandmother's skull?" John looked inquisitive at the young man sitting rather stiffly on the sofa.

"Yes, her scull." The man, Anthony Conrad Dovegrave to the best of John's recollection, gave him a short glance before his eyes moved back to Sherlock, who was currently sitting in his armchair, fingers stippled in front of him with his index fingers resting on his lower lip.

"But… Shouldn't that be something for the local police?" John furrowed his brow, where on earth did these lunatics come from. Right now he couldn't decide whether it was the case that seemed a bit insane or the young man himself as he was sitting there wearing tight, black jeans, a well-fitted shirt and a blazer. He looked completely normal had it not been for the two rings piercing his lower lip on each side and the vague hint of light-brown eye shadow and mascara.

"Come on John, the police have better things to do than searching for a missing skull – I know from experience," Sherlock said without moving, but his eyes fixed on John for a second before they started searching Anthony again.

"Yes but Sherlock, if it were dug up, not just… Wait a minute, where _does_ your skull come from?" John stared back at Sherlock, glad for once to have the advantage of height, seeing as he was sitting at the table instead of in his armchair.

"So, you say that someone dug up your grandmother's grave, broke into the coffin – what was left of it anyway – and took her skull without taking any of her jewellery." Sherlock tilted his head to one side and clenched his eyes a little.

"Yes, as I said – they did it over night. And according to the police there are no real evidence, and no cameras cover the area, so you see Mister Holmes, they do not think they will have much luck. But my mother is devastated, and she insisted I came to you." Anthony quirked a brow and crossed his legs at the knees, adding to his already feminine appearance. John stared at him for a while, he had a strange resemblance to Sherlock.

"Fine, I will take the case, John and I will be coming down tomorrow," Sherlock said as he got up and buttoned one of the buttons of his blazer. John stared at him; he had not expected that Sherlock would actually take the case. It was probably some teenagers who had been messing about with satanic rituals or something.

"Thank you Mister Holmes," Anthony got up as well and mirrored Sherlock's movements almost to perfection. It was quite fascinating really, although John didn't think Anthony looked nearly as mysterious as Sherlock did – he was missing the glow of a genius, mad man Sherlock possessed. The two of them shook hands and Anthony left the flat without a second glance towards John.

"Sherlock, this just sounds like…" John began before Sherlock cut him off,

"_Finally _something remotely interesting," he said before falling back onto the sofa and taking up his _'I'm thinking'_-position.

"What could possibly be interesting Sherlock, I mean yes, it's a skull that have been dug up from a graveyard, but it was probably some stupid teenagers," John said as he went into the kitchen to make some more tea, "leave it to the police."

"If it were teenagers, they would have taken some, if not all, of the woman's jewellery, most likely they would not know how valuable they are, but they would think of them as 'retro' I would presume, and therefore take them," Sherlock said, as much to John as to himself.

"How can you honestly know that her jewellery are worth anything?" John said as he tried to find a bag of tea that looked safe, lately Sherlock had been experimenting with different dried herbs (and other things that could be dried and put into a teabag without being to obvious).

"Honestly John," Sherlock sighed, "It seems rather obvious, the hand-made Italian shoes are not something you find in even the most expensive stores, so they have been made especially for him, the tailored clothes – even his jeans were made by a tailor, you don't have to see everything to notice that given the way the fitted him. All this tells you he has money, a lot of them, and then there is the way he talks and moves, which tells you it is old money. He is clearly upper-class, aristocracy judging by the ring on his right hand, but somehow he does not fit in, so he has learned to adjust his body language to those he is in company with and whom he deems to have the body language needed to reach his objective, hence he copied me."

John stood in the kitchen wondering a bit, he did get Sherlock's deductions, but he was a bit annoyed that Sherlock for once couldn't act just a little humble,

"So, what was his objective then? I don't see how copying you could help him to convince you to take the case." John finally found what appeared to be two normal teabags and retrieved some mugs. As the water boiled in the kettle the flat was silent, and John assumed it would be hours before Sherlock spoke again.

He made the tea and went back into the drawing room, placing one of the mugs on the coffee table within Sherlock's reach – he would drink it whether it was hot or cold, so John didn't bother trying to break into Sherlock's stream of thoughts, no good had ever come out of it anyway. In stead he went to his armchair and turned on the telly, hoping something interesting could be found.

"Short."

John almost jumped at the unexpected sound from the sofa,

"I'm sorry what?" He turned over and looked at Sherlock who was still lying there as if he had never spoken at all. Perhaps it had just been his imagination John thought, so he turned back towards the telly. He flipped to the news where the newsreader were telling something about an arts theft from Tate modern, apparently someone had stolen a work by Francis Bacon called _Three Studies for Figures at the Base of a Crucifixion_. A picture of the paintings came up on the screen, and John felt repulsed, the backgrounds were red as blood and each painting showed a disfigured creature twisted in something that didn't quite resemble pain, but rather it looked like animalistic rage or pleasure. Somehow it reminded John of the bloodshed in Afghanistan, the seemingly pointless deaths and the way it brought out the worst sides of some of the soldiers.

John turned off the telly, he really didn't want to be reminded of the war and the horrors he had seen there.

"Okay, I'm off to bed," he said as he got up and walked towards the doorway before pausing a second to look back at Sherlock, who seemed not to notice his presence at all. John sighed and walked up to his bedroom.

As he lay under the duvet, soft, soothing tones began travelling up through the staircase and the closed wooden door to his bedroom, Sherlock had started to play his violin downstairs. With the sounds, sleep crept over John and he fell into a dreamless state of unconsciousness.

He was awakened by the sunlight sneaking through the unpolished windows. The late autumn sun seemed cold than necessary. He threw on his clothes and walked downstairs into the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea. Sherlock was nowhere to be found.

He seated himself in the armchair and unfolded yesterdays newspaper, a few articles had Sherlock's dramatically draw circles around them, but they didn't seem to have any logical connection – or where particularly interesting for that matter.

The door into the drawing room banged open, and John nearly spilled his tea out of mere surprise.

"Ah good, you're up," Sherlock said as he strode over to the desk, opened John's computer and started tapping away, "We are leaving as soon as you are all packed." He completely ignored John's baffled look.

"Erm Sherlock, a little bit of warning before just ordering me like that." John felt a little annoyed that Sherlock just commanded him like that, and he thought he should at least appear to put up a fight.

"You were there yesterday, were you not," Sherlock looked at him from the laptop and quirked a brow, sending him a peculiar look.

"Yes, yes I was, but I didn't exactly expect to be hauled off first thing," John furrowed his brow, he liked having a quiet morning,

"I should expect you of all people were used to that," Sherlock mumbled, "I've rented a car, it's down on the street. Pack your things and we are off to Uckfield," he said as he got up from his seat and closed the laptop with a click.

"Things? What things?" John shot Sherlock a confused glance.

"A bag, and overnight bag if you will, I've arranged for us to stay at the local inn for two nights," Sherlock said rather distant in his voice.

"Two nights? Sherlock it's a stolen _skull_, I've seen you solve more mystical things a lot faster," John said a little exasperated, "And besides, I've got a date tomorrow!" He got up from his chair and stared at Sherlock, he had to be kidding – he had to, John thought.

"Cancel it," Sherlock replied.

"Fine, since you ask so nicely," John said and went upstairs to pack some things into a duffle bag. He had worked really hard on getting that date, and she was perhaps the kind of woman he could see himself getting old with. He decided to wait and call her later in the evening, calling her while she was at work were probably a bad idea – and it was sure to give him less time to explain the situation and beg for a new date.

"You really won't be needing that," Sherlock's voice came from behind his shoulder and John turned around to see his dead-serious flatmate standing uncomfortably close.

"What?" John felt confused, and since when had Sherlock become the one who decided what John was packing?

"The condoms, John, we are going to Uckfield, not on your _date_." Sherlock shot him an amused glance and John realised that his thoughts had been rather occupied by the date that was now, unfortunately, going to be cancelled, so he had just grabbed them without thinking.

A sharp sound made him turn his head and look at the window, located on the side of the building that was facing towards the street. Again the sound travelled up and through the glass, it was the sound of not just one, but multiple car-horns honking incisively.

"What is going on down there?" He started walking towards the window.

"Oh, I just parked the car to make sure it was placed in a way that would secure a swift exit," Sherlock said in a casual tone. John looked out of the window, and yes, Sherlock had definitely made sure they could get a swift exit; he had parked the car in the middle of the lane, causing traffic jam.

"Sherlock!" John exclaimed and stared at his flatmate, "fine, I'm almost done." John propped a few other items into the bag and the two of them headed down to the street. Even thought John knew from experience that Sherlock was an okay driver, he still felt a little uncomfortable at the thought of entering into a car driven by Sherlock of all people – and the other drivers honking and yelling only added to the uncomfortable feeling.

* * *

**A/N: **The stolen paintings can be seen here: .uk / art / artworks / bacon-three-studies-for-figures-at-the-base-of-a-crucifixion-n06171


	2. Uckfield

**Disclaimer: I do not own BBC Sherlock, nor do I profit from it!**

**A/N: **Well, this is Uckfield – the town is real, but most of the descriptions are made up (except for one, if you are bored, go hunting for it ;-) ).

* * *

**Uckfield**

The trip had been rather uneventful (and Sherlock hadn't uttered a single word) except for the fact that they had nearly hit an old lady passing the street – she had had to spring for her life, and it seemed to John that Sherlock had actually speeded up when he saw her.

The inn was cosy enough, held in brownish colours, and seemed like it was the centre of the life in the small town. Sherlock had gone off to God knows where, and John went in to get the keys to their rooms.

"Hi, there should be a reservation under Holmes," John gave the landlady a smile. She returned it with a tight grimace and without a word she left only to return a few minutes later a key and handed it to John,

"Here, double room, second floor," she said as she passed it to him. John looked at it in slight confusion before realisation hid him: Sherlock had probably deemed it unnecessary to book two rooms, or even a room with two beds, and now the woman behind the bar assumed they were a couple,

"Oh, thanks… We just, he wanted to save the money, since he rarely sleeps," John said a little apologetic, but the woman didn't look like she believed him one bit. He didn't bother to try saying anything else, it would probably just make it worse, so instead he just took their bags and went to find their room and unpack his own toiletry.

Back in the pub he ordered a sandwich and found a table at the window that gave him a good view of the town square. It was a nice little town, and for once it was nice not to have the roaring of London traffic to accompany the food.

"Someone must have seen something," Sherlock's voice came from behind. John turned to look at him but didn't say anything; his mouth was full of sandwich after all.

Sherlock seated himself opposite of John and looked out the window,

"The graveyard is rather open, so even if it happened in the black of night, someone must have seen something – small-town people can be more observant and effective than even Mycroft's surveillance." Sherlock turned his head around and appeared to take in the décor of the pub,

"We are going to pay a visit to Lady Dovegrave," he said and started to get up. John decided that any protests about him still eating would go unheard, so he decided to leave the rest of his sandwich and followed Sherlock out to the car.

The estate was seated just outside of the city, hidden from view by big, old trees and bushes. It was a little too big for John's liking, too extravagant and at the same time it looked like something that could serve as an excellent location for a horror-film.

A butler opened the big wooden door. He greeted them and shoved them to a parlour where they were asked to take a seat. John shifted nervously in his seat, the chairs and sofas looked almost as expensive and old as the furniture he had seen up close in Buckingham Palace.

Another door opened and a slim, short woman entered, she had a striking resemblance to Anthony,

"Mister Holmes," She said as she walked over to shake Sherlock's hand, "And you are?" She looked quizzically at John.

"My colleague Doctor Watson," Sherlock answered before John had even started to open his mouth, "Lady Dovegrave, your son paid me a visit yesterday, and I just have a few questions regarding your mother."

"Yes off course, I'm so glad you would come," Lady Dovegrave said as she seated herself, "Anthony had his doubts – he seems to think it was just some vandals. Gerhard, tea please," she gestured to the butler who left the room.

"But you don't think it is vandals?" Sherlock held a straight face, but John could see he knew something and was only waiting to get it confirmed.

"Yes, you see, some of the locals… During the war, our family were perhaps a little too supportive of the Germans," her features tightened, and it was impossible for John to decipher whether she was ashamed of it or if she was trying to hide the fact that she wasn't.

"Ah, I see," Sherlock replied.

The parlour fell silent until the butler came back with a tray of tea and poured three cups. John took a cup, but the other two people remained perfectly still as if they were measuring each other.

"Erm, so what about the locals?" John interrupted the staring contest.

"After the war, some of the locals were exposed as collaborators and arrested – most of them falsely I might add – the Dovegraves had a rather large part in that to avoid being accused of helping the Germans. And since this is a small town with a lot of elderly people, it has not been forgotten," Sherlock looked rather self-satisfied, "And that is why Lady Dovegrave here thinks it wasn't vandals and that the police can't help, because the locals won't talk to the police if it is about revenge, isn't that so?" Sherlock stippled his fingers in front of him and eyed Lady Dovegrave, who seemed a bit flustered,

"Yes, you are quite right," she said, "So you see, your help would be much appreciated. It's not a question of money, I will pay you well." She got up and it was obvious she thought it was time for them to leave.

"We will be in touch, good day," Sherlock said as he got up and started to stroll out of the parlour. John put down his tea and tried to shake Lady Dovegrave's hand, but she just looked at him.

"Right, okay. Good day," John said instead before he hurried to catch up with Sherlock – who had already started the car outside.

Heading back to the inn, John started thinking about why anyone would dig up a skull as revenge, it seemed rather twisted. He turned and looked at Sherlock,

"Doesn't it seem a bit strange to dig up a skull for revenge – I mean surely there are better ways of getting revenge, isn't there?" He looked at Sherlock who cringed his forehead but didn't answer. John assumed he had heard what he had said.

Instead of stopping at the inn, Sherlock pulled up at the graveyard and got out, John followed him to the grave of the grandmother that was encircled in police-tape,

"It would look like the police are working on it though," John said and watched as Sherlock studied the tombstone and the hole that had been re-dug by the police,

"If it were vandals they wouldn't have gone through so much trouble. The stone hasn't been touched and whoever did it made a point of hiding the deed – you see those flowers there," Sherlock pointed at some roses laying next to the hole, "It seems that our perpetrator covered up the freshly dug earth with the flowers, hoping it would go unnoticed." Sherlock bend down and studied the flowers,

"Expensive, not the ones you get from a supermarket, rare I would say – especially in a town like this."

"Maybe it wasn't revenge then? Perhaps it was, I don't know, some old Nazis that wanted to use the skull in some ritual – I saw a documentary once telling how some of them were interested in the occult." John looked at Sherlock, who stared up at him and lifted his eyebrows,

"John, that –" He was cut off by a light cough coming from somewhere behind John,

"So… You are?" A small, grey man looked at them with some suspicion. John gave him a smile and held out a hand,

"Doctor Watson, we were just wondering what had happened here," he said as they shook hands. The man still looked a bit suspicious,

"I'm the gravedigger here, name's Peterson," he said as he started watching Sherlock who had resumed his investigation, "Happened 'couple of nights ago. Usually it's quiet here around." He walked over and looked at the hole, "I knew her before she died, she was nice enough you know. It's a bit disgusting that someone would do this."

Sherlock finally decided to stand up,

"You didn't happen to see anything, did you?" Sherlock said and narrowed his eyes a bit.

"No, I was at home, sleeping next to my wife." Peterson pointed at the direction of a nearby house.

"In that case: thank you. John, we should go back to the inn, it's nearly dinnertime." Sherlock started to walk back to the car.

"Oh, the inn, you don't happen to be Mister Holmes then?" Peterson said. Sherlock twirled around and looked at him for a short second before replying,

"Yes, I am. Good evening." He resumed his walk and John gave Peterson a short nod before following Sherlock.

"You are going to eat?" John asked a bit stunned.

"What? Oh, no I'm fine, I just need to think," Sherlock replied before he got in the car and drove off, leaving John baffled and annoyed at the roadside.

At least it was a small town and John liked to walk, so it didn't take him more than fifteen minutes to find his way back to the inn, but the car and Sherlock was nowhere to be seen.

* * *

Hours and a few pints later Sherlock had still not returned, and it was getting dark outside. John had chatted up a lovely local girl who had told him a thing or two about the Dovegraves, they didn't seem like particularly nice people, so John thought it might have been vandals after all.

"Doctor Watson," a bit too happy voice sounded and John turned around to see Anthony coming towards him, "Pleasure to see you," he said and offered his hand to John. The local girl (Mara perhaps?) shot John an annoyed glance before she disappeared. John didn't bother trying to chase after her, he was far too used to girls disappearing due to some kind of Sherlock-related business.

"Nice to see you again too, Anthony." John smiled as Anthony took in the now vacant seat next to him.

"So, where has the mysterious Sherlock Holmes gone off to?" he asked casually, but John got a feeling Anthony had some reason behind his question since the man was staring rather intensely at him.

"I really couldn't tell you, he took off somewhere, he does that sometimes," John said and emptied the pint he had.

"Can I get you another?" Anthony gave John a smile and gestured to the man behind the bar (whom John assumed was the husband of the sour landlady).

"Yeah, I don't see why not." John returned the smile and received his new pint.

"I have to ask, you and Sherlock?" Anthony gave John a cryptic smile before he took a swig of his pint. John didn't know whether to laugh or cry, he was getting tired of those suggestions,

"No, no we're not," John replied with a sigh, took another swig and kept his eyes firmly fixed on his glass.

"How's the mystery with my grandmother's skull going then? I told my mother it was probably just vandals you know, local teenagers who were bored because there isn't much to do around here. But she seems to think it's some kind of revenge because of something that happened ages ago," Anthony said and John could feel his eyes penetrating him in a manor that reminded him of Sherlock. He felt his cheeks getting warm and he shifted a little uncomfortably in his seat, where the Hell was Sherlock?

"It's, well it's coming along I guess. I don't know about the revenge-thing, but Sherlock doesn't seem to think it was vandals either," John said and held his gaze firmly upon the beer.

Anthony leaned in closer and John could feel his breath as he said in almost a whisper, "What do you think, Doctor Watson?" He didn't withdraw himself, but seemed to enjoy being so close to John. John in the other hand moved a bit away, Anthony was now very much in his personal space.

"John!"

Both of them turned around to see Sherlock looking at them, weighing what he had seen, before adjusting all of his attention to John,

"If you will excuse us, Anthony, I need John's help," he said flatly before turning around and starting to walk away. John got to his feet as fast as he could,

"Well, thank you for the pint." He gave Anthony a vague smile and hurried to follow Sherlock, who was heading upstairs to their room.

John shut the door behind him and sat down on the bed. What had happened at the bar had been a little humiliating,

"Thank you for your timing," he said and looked at Sherlock who had started pacing the floor of the room and seemed to ignore him, "So where did you go off to?"

Sherlock stopped in his track and looked at John for a second before resuming his activity,

"You were right John," he said and John straightened his back a little, he liked when Sherlock told him he was getting something right, "I mean, off course you got it wrong, but you were right that the skull was probably dug up for some important reasons. Nazis who were to use it in a ritual wouldn't leave flowers like that. But someone wanted _that_ skull." Sherlock stopped and looked out the window.

"How did you come up with that?" John looked at him curiously but no answer came, so instead he headed to the bathroom to get ready for bed.

He splashed some water in his face and stared at himself in the mirror. It was not that he minded people being gay, he just didn't see why people assumed that he was – granted the double room-thing had been a little weird, and he was somehow flattered that a young, good-looking man like Anthony found him attractive, but still it made him feel uneasy.

Sleeping with Sherlock in the room wasn't much better either, and as he crept under the duvet he couldn't stop worrying a bit about what would happen if Sherlock somehow got bored during the night. He really didn't want to be exposed to an experiment while sleeping.

"Okay, Sherlock, I'm going to sleep now, so I'll be turning off the lights," he said to Sherlock's back before clicking off the lights and leaving the room in complete darkness except for the lights that came in through the window.

"I spoke to an old woman I met. She had been to the graveyard that night – something to do with her dead husband – and she had seen the figure of a man who was digging. She thought it was a ghost that was weeping as it dug up the grave, her eyesight wasn't very good and she was simple minded. She assumed it had something to do with the history of the Dovegrave family," Sherlock said from his place at the window.

John sighed, it was late, he was tired and now, no matter how interesting this case was, he was forced to listen to Sherlock all night,

"But you think that is wrong as well, right, the family history thing. So what did whoever dug up the skull need it for?" John pulled himself up on his elbows and looked at Sherlock.

"I have some ideas, but until we find the man who dug it up in the first place, I cannot know for sure." Only silence followed after that, and John decided this was as good a time as any to lie down and fall asleep.

* * *

When he woke up it was light outside and Sherlock was nowhere to be seen.

A quick shower later, he found himself downstairs still in time to get breakfast – something his stomach found to be very necessary at this point.

"'Morning, I'd like to order some breakfast," he said as he reached the bar.

The landlady looked at him with suspicion for a couple of seconds,

"Sure. By the way, that _friend_ of yours… He's creeping out folks around here – running around in the graveyard in the dead of night. I don't know if it's normal where you lot come from, but here…" She shook her head before disappearing into the kitchen, leaving John unable to answer her. It would seem that there were no options when it came to what breakfast they served then; he would just have to eat what he got.

He found his table from yesterday and started watching the lazy activity of people passing by the town square.

A suspicious looking character walked briskly in the direction of the inn. It was, off course, Sherlock, and by the way others stared at him, it would seem the landlady had been right.

Sherlock disappeared out of view before he emerged again inside the inn. He reached John around the same time as a plate of breakfast was put down in front of him. John noticed the evil scowl the landlady shot Sherlock, but apparently Sherlock was oblivious to this.

"So, I hear you've been running around scaring locals in the middle of the night," John said as he debated with himself what the best plan of attack was towards the plate filled with baked beans, toast, scrambled eggs and sausages.

"What?" Sherlock looked at him in confusion, "Oh, you are referring to the fact that I was examining how much light there would be in the graveyard at night, and how much people can be expected to see – the weather last night was very similar to the weather five nights ago when the skull was dug up."

Sherlock stared at John in a rather unnerving manner, while John was doing his best to cut off a piece of a sausage that didn't seem willing to cooperate.

"When you're done with _that_, pack your things. We are going back to London," Sherlock said before looking out of the window, wrinkling his forehead.

"What? You mean you've figured it out already?" John said hopefully before taking revenge over the uncooperative sausage by biting of it instead.

Sherlock let out a sigh of exasperation,

"Lestrade called. They have found a body," Sherlock turned his attention back towards John with a glint of excitement dancing in his eyes, "And a skull," he said, looking practically glowing as the last words left his lips.

John felt a bit confused, although he did see why Sherlock would find a murder more interesting than a dug-up skull.

"Really, John, a _skull_, a skull that could look like it has been buried in the ground for years!"

It dawned on John,

"You think it could be the skull we are looking for?" he said, "But why would anyone place a skull of an old woman at a crime scene?" He looked quizzically at Sherlock.

"It must hold some importance. And according to Lestrade, the crime scene is somewhat… Unusual." John huffed and tried his best to suppress a smile as he caught the repulsed looks the landlady was sending their way. Sherlock looked like a child waiting to unwrap his Christmas present.

"So, what makes it so unusual?" John asked.

"It's a tableau, the victim is placed in a pose and held in there by the help of a construction made of iron. It could either be a serial killer or someone with a severely deranged mind," Sherlock answered as his eyes sparkled even more. John didn't really see the difference between a serial killer and someone with a deranged mind, and it was almost unnerving how much Sherlock seemed to enjoy it either way. On the other hand John couldn't help it, he felt the excitement rush through his veins. This was going to be interesting it would seem.

When they checked out of the inn, the landlady looked somewhat relieved and gave them her best fake smile – which wasn't really any good John thought.

The trip back to London was far better than the trip down to Uckfield, mostly due to Sherlock's extremely good mood that lasted until they hit London's every busy traffic. Sherlock yelled just as much at the other drivers as he did of the television.

* * *

**A/N:** Please, reviews make me happy, and even though I know this might not be the typical Sherlock-fanfiction, reviews are much appreciated :-)

**Also:** thank you for the adding's of this as a favourite and for following this little experiment of mine (well, I say little…).

**Next update:** don't know exactly when, but I will do my very best to make it within a fortnight – uni is starting up again, so the calculation goes as follows: the worse a student I am, the faster the update ;-)


	3. Lemons

**Disclaimer: I do not fly, I do not jump on my tongue, hence I do not own, nor profit from, BBC's Sherlock! Don't be daft ;-)**

**A/N: **Thanks for the reviews (and to Ingrid, who reviewed as a guest: thank you, I'm very glad you like it and hope you catch this update), thanks to those who have favorited and follows the story – it makes me happy :-)  
I apologise for the late update, I know I said I wanted to try and update every fortnight, but life got in the way like the lazy cat it is, so I stumbled across it… I will do my best to finish the next chapter faster, but unfortunately I cannot promise anything - it depends on life, the universe and everything :-/

**Warning!** Okay, so this contains (at least the attempt of) a detailed description of a murder… Well, of the dead body to be exact :-)

* * *

**Lemons**

A horrible stench of rot hit them as they entered the flat of a Mr. and Mrs. Pierce and was greeted by Lestrade,

"Finally, I thought you'd never get here." He turned around and led them to the bedroom – it was evident that the stench came from in there.

John had seen many things in his life; horrible things he wished he could erase the way Sherlock could erase certain things. But this had to be one of the worst things, if not _the_ worst thing he had ever seen.

"From the looks of it he has been dead for approximately four or five days, but we will know more when we get the forensics' report," Lestrade said sounding ready to vomit despite the fact that he had already seen the room, and been in the smell for some time now.

It was a large bedroom, the bed was neatly made and everything was tidy – a bit too tidy from John's experience with crime scenes. On the floor at the foot of the bed was a square made out of black plastic bags taped to the carpet with matching black duck tape, so obviously it wasn't something the forensics team had put there. Something that was also given away by the… Tableau was probably the most correct word for what he saw, John though.

On top of the plastic was the decomposing body of a man.

It had been carefully placed in some sort of device that kept the body in a posture where it looked like it was shaping some sort of M, the backside barely touching the plastic, it seemed it was meant to look as if the man was only resting on his hands and tiptoes. The hands, lower arms, feet and lower legs were wrapped up in white bandages. The neck and most of the head had been wrapped up in bandages too, leaving only the dead face of the victim to be seen. On top of those bandages was the skull, also fastened with the same kind of white bandages. Both pair of empty eyes stared at them. And as if the scene wasn't grotesque enough, the whole thing was enclosed in a circle of lemons lain out on the black plastic.

"Eighteen lemons," Sherlock said as he stepped closer to the scene in front of them and bend down to have a closer look, "I assume this is Mr. Pierce."

"Yes, it is – wife found him this morning, been away on business for the past week," Lestrade explained.

"John, what do you think?" Sherlock asked him, and John realised he had to step closer to the surreal scene in front of him.

Pulling on a pair of latex-gloves he looked closely at the body, it would seem that a quick estimate of the time of death matched that of the forensics' estimate. As to the cause of death asphyxiation would seem to be the answer, deeming from the dark bruises hidden underneath the bandages around the neck.

"I'd agree with the estimated time of death, and the cause of death would seem to be asphyxiation – there are dark bruising on the neck, looks like it was done with a belt, or something similar, not wider than two inches I'd say." John looked at Sherlock, who had kept his eyes fixed on the body,

"Yes, what I thought – there are blood-clusters in his eyes that seems to concur with your opinion," he said as he got up and turned his attention towards Lestrade, "The wife? Has she been interrogated?"

Lestrade shot Sherlock a look of disbelieve, "No, not really, she's in shock."

Sherlock gave an exasperated sigh,

"At least tell me you have asked her for the purpose of her little business trip," he said as he hunched down again and started to examine the iron frame holding the body in the unnatural position.

"She was in America, landing some kind of contract, paper's been checked. She's the daughter of William Turner, the owner of-" Lestrade was cut off by sergeant Donovan who had entered the room unnoticed,

"A lingerie empire called 'Laces', but I guess you've never heard of if, freak?" she said in a spiteful tone. John had always wondered what exactly had gone wrong when the two of them had first met, besides the fact that Sherlock had probably been as pretentious back then, if not worse.

Sherlock didn't spare her a glance, but still managed to retort within a split-second, "A bit too expensive for your pay check, isn't it Sally?"

Lestrade sighed; it was evident that John wasn't the only one in the room getting tired of their little dance round each other almost every time they had the opportunity.

"Well, what do you say of the iron framings then?" Lestrade finally said to break the silence of the room.

Donovan huffed and left the room.

"Obviously it has been made especially for this occasion. I would say that it's homemade by someone who knew what they were doing, by someone who has welded before." Sherlock stood up and took in the scene once more. John decided to join him, it didn't seem like he would be needed to stick his head close to the corpse again any time soon.

"You think that could be our skull?" John looked at Sherlock. He had no doubt the skull came from a woman, but it seemed too coincidental that _this_ could be the skull they were looking for. On the other hand it seemed unlikely that another female skull just popped up under this kind of strange circumstances.

"There will have to be done some testing, but yes, I think it could be," Sherlock said and turned his attention to Lestrade, "Where's Mrs. Pierce? I need to ask her some questions."

Lestrade shot John a wary glance while Sherlock, not seeming to care about the answer to his request, started rummaging around the drawers in the bedside tables and a jacket that was nicely placed on the back of a chair.

"Sherlock, you can't go through their things like that-" Lestrade started, but seemed to give up his attempt of controlling Sherlock, "Mrs. Pierce is at her parent's house. But she's in shock, so if you insist on talking to her, you might want to go easy on her."

* * *

The house of William Turner was rather impressive; John had no doubt that there was a lot of money in having a lingerie-empire. He wondered if he had chosen the wrong profession after all – he certainly wouldn't mind having to deal with models in underwear.

They were invited into a beautiful hall by a visibly concerned housekeeper who asked them to wait until she had asked Mr. Turner if it was okay that they asked him and his daughter a couple of questions. It seemed that Mrs. Turner was away in business as well.

After a couple of minutes she came back and led them into a nicely decorated drawing room where Mr. Turner and Mrs. Pierce both sad in an overly expensive-looking sofa.

Mr. Turner gave them a firm nod and gestured towards the sofa on the other side of a massive sofa table in mahogany. Mrs. Pierce sobbed and tried to make a weak greeting.

She wasn't much of a looker John though. Not that she had been in any of the pictures he had noticed at the flat, but right now she looked like something the cat had dragged in, chewed and spat out again.

"Mrs. Pierce, do you have any idea why someone would kill your husband and make him look-" John discretely kicked Sherlock underneath the coffee table, "Why would someone kill him in such a manner?" Sherlock said and shot John a glance that could have given him third-degree burns had he not been used to it by now.

"I… I… No!" Mrs. Pierce sobbed violently while her father rubbed her back comfortingly. "Do you have to do this now? The police understood she needed some time – she's in shock for God's sake," Mr. Turner said rather harshly. John didn't really blame him, his daughter looked a right mess of tears, puffed eyes and snot.

Mrs. Pierce made a horrible whining sound, got up of the sofa and ran out of the drawing room.

Mr. Turner gave them both an evil stare.

"So, Mr. Turner, what do you think happened to your late son-in-law?" Sherlock said as if he had not just witnessed a woman run away from him crying. But perhaps that was what he counted as a normal reaction John mused before clearing his throat. Being with Sherlock for so long had definitely derailed him from what he previously considered normal behaviour in such situations.

"Well, Mr. Holmes, my daughter, Sophie," Mr. turner nodded towards the direction where his daughter had disappeared, "loved him very much." He sighed and rubbed a hand over his face.

"And what about you?" John asked. He hadn't expected that kind of answer to Sherlock's question. Something seemed a bit off.

"Ah, he is – was – family after all. But I'll admit we were never that close. Always felt like there was something…" His eyes started darting around, something about this subject made him feel ashamed it would seem.

"In what way 'something'?" Sherlock asked, John could hear from the tone of his voice that his interest was peaked.

"I just wasn't comfortable about the way Sophie was so infatuated with him," he said and clenched his hands, "to be honest I don't think he felt the same way."

"Did Mr. Pierce come from a family with money?" Sherlock asked rather indiscreet. Mr. Turner didn't seem to mind; rather he seemed relieved that someone was being so direct with him.

"No, he didn't, they met at a nightclub I think. I tried to make Sophie get a prenuptial agreement, but I'm fairly sure he convinced her that that meant she didn't love him." He let out a sigh, "She has a great deal of money, and when I die some day, she will inherit the business. Without a prenuptial agreement he could take a hell of a lot of money from her now, and later on he could ruing the business as well."

"And why do you thing he would do that? Hasn't he married her because he loved her?" Sherlock furrowed his brows.

"I don't know, but what I do know is that he has been doing something behind her back. Who the woman is I don't know – or if it's just one," he said as he lowered his voice a bit, "but I've had a private investigator follow him around for some months, keep an eye on him you know. I don't know if he knew he was being followed, or if he was just being extremely careful, but all the investigator could come up with was that he was going to different places, clearly meeting someone." He sighed again, "Neither the investigator or I knew what to think of it, it didn't seem to be drugs. There was one time, though, when Sophie was away on business, where he had a woman come over. From the pictures it looks like a prostitute to be honest."

"Thank you for your time." Sherlock stood up abruptly and left the room. John followed him with his eyes before focusing on Mr. Turner again, "I'm sorry, he's always like that. Thank you for your time Mr. Turner," he said and followed Sherlock out onto the street.

* * *

"He's hiding something," Sherlock said as soon as John had gotten into the cab next to him.

"Well, sometimes people are good at hiding their traces."

"Mr. Pierce doesn't come off as a genius, a charlatan maybe, but certainly not someone who would be able to hide an affair from a private investigator for months – which leaves a couple of possibilities: either there was no private investigator, but it doesn't make any sense for Mr. Turner to make that up, or he knows who his son-in-law was having an affair with and won't tell either because he thinks it too embarrassing or because he needs us to think that he doesn't know because of something he himself has done," Sherlock said and fiddled with his phone before putting it back into his pocket and turned to look out the window.

"So, which one do you think it is?" John asked the dark mop of hair.

"Probably a mixture of the two last possibilities," he mumbled in reply.

"Shouldn't we find the private investigator then?"

"What would we do that for? If he's any good, and if Mr. Turner is smart, any evidence telling another story than the one he told us would be removed by now. And if he's not that smart, I doubt he would have any evidence that would make a difference. Besides, it would spoil the fun."

John sighed and shook his head, he doubted if he would ever get what the hell was going on inside Sherlock's head – a good break-in was something he would have thought the detective would enjoy.


	4. The Shadow Lounge

**Disclaimer:** No, still don't own, nor profit from, BBC Sherlock ;-)

**A/N:** I'm not dead, but I do apologise for the (very late) update. I'm afraid things aren't going to brighten up over the next fem months, but I'm doing my very best :-)

**Now:** Enjoy and please, please review :-)

* * *

**The Shadow Lounge**

"Where did you say we were going?" John followed Sherlock down the stairs and out onto the street.

"The Shadow Lounge in Soho," Sherlock answered impatiently as he hailed down a cap. The black car stopped in front of him and they both climbed in to the back.

"Where to?" the cabby asked and looked at them in the rear-view mirror. John turned to focus on the black night sky.

"5 Brewer Street, Soho," Sherlock replied and John could see in the reflection of the window how his face was lit up by his phone.

"Oh, you some of them lots then, are ya?" the cabbie sniffed out in a strained voice. John turned to look at the back of his head, then he looked at Sherlock who seemed lost in his world of texting. "What do you mean 'them lots'?" John asked, not sure he really wanted to know the answer.

"You are going to The Shadow Lounge, aren't ya?" the cabbie said and sped up the car to catch the yellow light at an intersection.

"Well, yes?" John really didn't see what the man meant; perhaps Sherlock was dragging him to some sort of BDSM club? With Sherlock, one could never be quite sure where one ended up in London.

"What the man is referring to," Sherlock's deep voice interrupted, "is that The Shadow Lounge is a gay club."

"Oh..."

"Ya didn't know that?" The cabbie sounded suspicious, but when no answer came, he seemed to drop the subject and concentrated on the road.

* * *

A line of people were standing in front of a grumpy looking bouncer, all dressed very fancy. John started to feel severely underdressed, and standing next to Sherlock in one of his impeccable suits didn't help one bit.

Sherlock walked next to the line and John saw him exchange a few words with the bouncer before he looked back at John and jerked his head to indicate for him to follow. Walking past all those fancily dressed people, John could practically feel their eyes stabbing him down. Presumably some did it due to them cutting the line, others because they probably thought _he_ was _with_ Sherlock.

It was still early, so the lounge wasn't too crowded, but there were already people dancing and drinking. He wondered if this was a place Harry ever would have visited. Probably not, not now anyway.

"Go up to the bar and order me a scotch, I'll have a look around," Sherlock said into his ear, he was barely audible even though the music wasn't that loud - compared to a jet-engine John mused. He was definitely too old for places like this, but he could see some people his own age who clearly didn't feel the same way.

He made his way to the bar and ordered a couple of Scotches, still having no idea of what they were doing there in the first place. He looked round for Sherlock, but the crowd seemed to have swallowed him whole.

He decided to focus on the scotch; it was a nice one, even though he didn't see why it had to be so expensive. A man his own age squeezed in next to him and tried to flag down a bartender. John felt how his eyes kept travelling to him.

"I'm Dan," the other man, Dan, said and held out a hand, sending John a warm smile.

"Hi, John," John nodded and shook the outstretched hand.

"Here with someone?" Dan asked and nodded towards the second glass of scotch.

"Yes, I'm here with my friend, he just had to check something out," John said and took a sip of scotch. Dan nodded and ordered a drink from the bartender.

"So, how long have you been together?" Dan had a mischievous glint in his eye. "Oh, we're not, I mean, we're just friends," John answered and felt his cheeks become hotter.

"Okay then," Dan said with a smile and suddenly John had a distinct feeling of how it must be to be a girl getting hit on by an unwanted suitor, "What do you do for a living, John?"

"Tedious." John turned around and saw Sherlock standing closely behind him.

"This would be my friend, Sherlock," he said gesturing towards the looming man behind him, "Sherlock, this is Dan."

Dan's eye flickered a little nervously when he caught eye of Sherlock. Not that John minded not being the centre of a gay man's attention, but it was typical that Sherlock stole the sun with his, granted, pretty exterior - if you could refer to a man as being pretty.

"Hello," Dan smiled up at Sherlock before looking at John again. It would seem that John wasn't that uninteresting after all.

"If you are trying to pick up John, it's a tedious way you've decided to start. In short, he's a doctor, he serves as my assistant as well, we live together. But that is not really what makes him interesting. And besides from him not being gay, you are far too boring for him. Well, perhaps boring is the wrong word, desperate may be better, you are clearly in a registered partnership with an older man with whom you seldom have sex, which frustrates you, so you go out to find someone you can go home with. But, since you tend to go to gay clubs, where you inevitably will run into someone you know, you really want to get out of the marriage, you just don't have the courage to finish it yourself." Sherlock reached over and grabbed the other glass of scotch in front of John and took a sip. John stared at him in disbelief before turning to look at Dan, ready to apologise for Sherlock's behaviour. Dan just shot him a strange glance and walked away without a word.

"Was that really necessary?" John asked as Sherlock took the now empty seat.

"I wanted a place to sit, hardly my fault he was so obvious," Sherlock replied with a shrug.

John sighed; this seemed hopeless.

"So, why are we here exactly?" he asked and took a fairly large swig of his glass.

"I found-" Sherlock started, one hand rummaging around a pocket in his trousers, but John interrupted him, "hold on, my phone is ringing. Hello?" He said as he held it to his ear.

_"John, where are you? I've been waiting for thirty minutes now,"_ the female voice at the other end said, she sounded exasperated. John wondered who it could be; it wasn't a number he had saved in his phone.

_"Are you at a club? There's really loud music in the background," _she said.

Oh, Martha, the woman he had a date with tonight. How could he be this stupid?

"I'm at The Shadow Lounge, I'm sorry, but my flatmate Sherlock needed my help, and I didn't have time to call you," John could practically hear how lame he sounded, "maybe we could reschedule to tomorrow?"

_"You're at The Shadow Lounge? Do you think I'm stupid?"_ Martha practically yelled at him and hung up. John stared at his phone; he probably shouldn't have forgotten to call her. But really, he didn't get why she was that upset about him being at The Shad... Oh Hell, she probably thought he wasn't really interested in women.

"She wasn't really you type anyway," Sherlock said in a dry voice and took a sip of Scotch. John tried to protest, but Sherlock threw an old receipt on the bar and continued as if John's phone had never rung, "I found this in Mr. Pierce's wallet, and it would seem he was a regular here - he most certainly was a member of the place." Sherlock focused on someone at the other end of the bar, emptied his glass and stood up, "You ask the bartender who he usually talked to." He threw a torn half of a photograph next to the receipt; it showed a very much alive Mr. Pierce in a fancy suit, wearing a big smile. He was a handsome man, even though he looked like his height was a little less than average. John looked at the outlines of something white at the bottom of the picture, it was obviously something that had been in the photograph before someone (Sherlock?) had torn it, a little higher up he could see something red, it looked like roses. He furrowed his brows a little – it looked like... A wedding-photo, obviously nothing was holy to Sherlock. He turned around to scold the detective, but he was already gone. In stead he got eye-contact with Anthony who was coming his way. He was trapped, he could hardly act like he hadn't seen him, but he really didn't want to run into him here of all places.

"Hi, John," he said as he took the now empty seat next to John, "didn't expect to see you here." He shot John a warm smile, his eyes sparkling.

"I thought you were in Uckfield?" John replied and drank the last of his Scotch.

"I were, but to be honest, it's a little too much of a small town for me - my mother would never dream of leaving, but I only come there when she really needs me to. No, London is my home now," he replied and flagged down a bartender, "two scotch, please."

"You here with someone?" John could have bitten off his tongue, no need keeping Anthony around more than strictly necessary, not with the interest he had shown him last night.

"You looked like you could need another - and the company," Anthony smiled at him.

John sighed and tried shooting the young man a polite smile. Maybe this could turn out to be an advantage after all, perhaps Anthony knew the late Mr. Pierce. John nodded towards the photograph, "Have you seen this man here?"

Anthony looked down at the smiling man in the photograph and seemed to study it intensely for a while, "Yeah, I've seen him here a couple of times. James is his name I think, I…" Anthony stopped and looked up at John, "he went home with me once – and now I sound like I don't remember who I sleep with. Trust me, I do John," he said and leaned forward, "Names is not my speciality, but yes, I remember James…" The bartender placed two glasses of scotch in front of them. "He had a little…" Anthony stretched out his hand, "tiny…" his fingertips brushed John's throat and travelled down to where his shoulder met his neck, "birthmark here," he whispered, "shaped like a heart – a real heart I mean." John felt almost paralysed; Anthony had not once broken eye contact and was now so close that John could feel his breath.

"Oh, erhm… So, what can you tell me about him?" John stammered.

Anthony removed his hand from John's neck and took a sip of his scotch, "Honestly I hope not to run into him again – turned out he was married, to a woman, and that his father-in-law had him followed. Why are you asking me this?"

"Well, Mr. Pierce, James, has been murdered – and it would seem that your grandmother's skull was at the crime scene," John said and took a large gulp of scotch.

"Oh, well… That sounds… Wow, I did not see that one coming… Well in that case I might better be honest with you," Anthony furrowed his brows, "I did know James – rather well I might add – we met here, I saw him for a couple of months. At first I didn't know he was married, but by the time I figured it out, I had already fallen in love with him – and I hoped he was going to leave his wife. His father-in-law found out and he and I had a rather unpleasant conversation," Anthony rolled up his sleeve and showed a fresh scar, "lets just say we had a disagreement and I fell – eight stitches and a ruined silk shirt. I tell you, his father-in-law is a bit of a crazy person."

"Do you think he could have anything to do with James' murder?" John studied Anthony as he swirled his scotch around and emptied the glass.

"I don't know – I mean, as crazy as the man seemed, he seemed more concerned about his daughter's happiness to be honest, that he wouldn't leave her, be faithful and all of that." Anthony shrugged.

"Oh what people are willing to do to ensure happiness – even if it's false," Sherlock had reappeared. Anthony shot him a dry smile and stood up, "I'm off, I have an early meeting tomorrow morning. Excuse me," he said and sent a warm smile in John's direction before leaving. Sherlock once again took the empty seat and looked at John, "Well?"

"He certainly knew Mr. Pierce," John said and sipped his scotch. "Yes, I figured he was his type – he does hold a certain similarity with you," Sherlock said and studied the photo with little interest.

John chose to ignore the feeling of having been exploited, "He told a rather different story to the one Mr. Turner told us, you know."

"I imagine," Sherlock said as he stood up and started heading towards the exit.


End file.
